I’m definitely not one to bemoan my lot in life, but I admit that in moments of weakness, the concept of luck bothers me greatly. It’s taken me 32 years, but I think I’ve finally got it figured out!
You see, I believe that just before God allows Mr. Stork to deliver us to this world, he gently rubs his chin until that little smirk crosses his face, and he smacks us on our little baby behind and christens us with our gift of luck! For me, he decided that I should have the gift of good parking spots….yup, parking spots, of all things. Most days I can enter a busy parking lot, and somehow the red sea of Monster Trucks and Minivans parts perfectly for me to smoothly squeeze into a close parking spot. Of all the things in the world, somehow I draw the gift of a good parking spot?...now I know why God smiled that silly little smirk!
There are a lot of days that go by when I pull into a sweet parking spot, curse my luck and think that I would have much rather been blessed with the gift of being hung like a porn star and marry a woman with nymphomaniacal tendencies, or be like that fella that has won the state lottery 3 or 4 times, but instead I GET A FREAKING PARKING SPOT! Or what about all of the golf tournaments, NRA banquets, and countless other raffles I pay too much money for the chance to win a new driver, awesome shot gun, or some other cool prize? Nope, I take the short walk to my sweet parking spot, all the while admiring my bag of tees, ball cap and koozy! Or when I go to Shreveport just knowing that I’ll be the one to sit down and hit spin on the wheel of fortune at just the time the casino gods decide to pay the big money? Nope, 2 hours later I take my short walk to the car with a lighter wallet, clothes that smell like smoke, and wondering what happened to that beer I ordered an hour ago.
Thankfully, I soon come to my senses and realize that most porn stars end up with a VD, you have to actually play the lottery before you can win it, I shouldn’t have overpaid to play a crappy round of golf, or enter that raffle for the gun, and I should never sit at the wheel of fortune with any hope of winning, much less getting my drink on time.
More than that I also realize that at the end of every day, God has blessed me with the best parking spot I could ever ask for, and I just have a short walk into a great house, with a beautiful wife and two kids (soon to be 3) who love to scream “DADDY’S HOME”, and for that gift, I’m the luckiest man in the world.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Monday, May 31, 2010
Field of Dreams
I honestly don’t listen to the radio much. During the school year, my five minute office commute turns into a 20 minute kid delivery system, and during that time I’d much rather listen for any nuggets of wisdom brought forward from the rugrats in the back. On the occasion that I have to go out of town for the day, I have lately found myself turning on the radio and tuning into ESPN radio. The thing that usually drives me nuts and eventually leads me to turn off ESPN radio in frustration is that ESPN announcers find one topic, and they talk about the same thing over and over again. It’s like having a front row seat for the day to watch Sysiphus push that boulder up the mountain!!! Inevitably one program will end, and another will start, and like Sysiphus, you just hope that boulder will stay on top of the mountain, so he can pick up a different one and start rolling that sucker back to the top; but it never turns out that way.
Like I said, normally this drives me insane!!! Until one day a few weeks back when the long time radio broadcaster for the Detroit Tigers passed away. His name escapes me at the moment, and I’m too lazy to google him, but that’s not really the point. Evidently this dude had been on the radio for over 50 or 60 years! Ernie Harwell, that’s his name! It just came back to me. At any rate, it soon became apparent that this man had touched the lives of literally millions of people. The ESPN phone lines were jam-packed with “regular Joes”, and “Joe Somebody’s” who were willing to wait on hold for a long time just so they could tell their own personal story of how Ernie, or Ernie’s broadcast, had a special place in their heart. What an amazing legacy. Each story lead me to a special memory of my own, and I’d like to share a little bit.
I remember as a boy, my granddaddy and I were mutual heroes of one another. He thought I hung the moon, and of course since the moon had been there as far back as I can remember, I thought he was giving me credit for something he did long ago. My granddaddy was always kinda old, and he smoked like a chimney, so I always remember him being kinda sickly. He always moved a little slow, and never did a whole lot, but I loved being around him. I always remember that if we were at his house, and there was a baseball game on, he’d slowly amble back to his bedroom, lay on his bed, and he’d watch the Astros for hours. If Nolan Ryan was pitching, it was a special treat. Since I wanted to stay in his shadow, I’d amble just behind as we walked down the long hallway, and as he crawled onto the bed I’d walk around to my grandmother’s side and we’d lay there in the smoke filled room listening to the echoes of Milo Hamilton and Larry Dierker as they told us pitch by pitch how the “Lastros” were playing crappy baseball. I’ll always remember as a little boy, we’d sit there watching the game, and somehow our hands would come together, our fingers would interlock, and sometimes we’d sit there and hold hands until one of us probably felt a little funny, and then we’d have arm wrestling matches, really for no other reason than to affirm that men shouldn’t sit there holding hands. The old fart died when I was about 12, and it almost broke my heart.
Before he died, I had found a small battery powered radio somewhere in the house, and it was the perfect size for me to tune into AM 740, and gently slide under my pillow, and there again I’d lay still and listen to Milo and Larry tell me how crappy the Astros were playing. After he died, I continued listening to the Astros on that little radio, and like a time machine, as Milo and Larry continued to tell the story of each game, my mind would drift back to those arm wrestling matches, and the great times we shared. Soon enough, like all young boys, I turned into a self absorbed teenager, life got busy, and I forgot about so many of the memories that shaped me.
“People will come Ray. The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh... people will come Ray. People will most definitely come”
My spine tingles as I remember this scene from Field Of Dreams, when James Earl Jones is convincing Kevin Costner not to forget about the past, or give up on his dream for the future. Like the quote, my blackboard was erased, only to be rebuilt by a few hours of ESPN radio, on an obscure day, where fans of all kinds extolled the virtues of a baseball announcer, and I’m so grateful to have that memory back again. Even today, with the exception of Jackson’s tee ball game, I’d really rather watch Sysiphus and his daily rock push, than watch a complete baseball game, but I still remember. It’s a silly game, it’s a boring game, and the Astros still stink, but I’m thankful for ESPN radio, Milo Hamilton and Larry Dierker for reminding me of what was once good. Most of all I’m thankful for the promise of my Lord to know that one day I can again hold hands with my granddaddy, and it will be good again.
Like I said, normally this drives me insane!!! Until one day a few weeks back when the long time radio broadcaster for the Detroit Tigers passed away. His name escapes me at the moment, and I’m too lazy to google him, but that’s not really the point. Evidently this dude had been on the radio for over 50 or 60 years! Ernie Harwell, that’s his name! It just came back to me. At any rate, it soon became apparent that this man had touched the lives of literally millions of people. The ESPN phone lines were jam-packed with “regular Joes”, and “Joe Somebody’s” who were willing to wait on hold for a long time just so they could tell their own personal story of how Ernie, or Ernie’s broadcast, had a special place in their heart. What an amazing legacy. Each story lead me to a special memory of my own, and I’d like to share a little bit.
I remember as a boy, my granddaddy and I were mutual heroes of one another. He thought I hung the moon, and of course since the moon had been there as far back as I can remember, I thought he was giving me credit for something he did long ago. My granddaddy was always kinda old, and he smoked like a chimney, so I always remember him being kinda sickly. He always moved a little slow, and never did a whole lot, but I loved being around him. I always remember that if we were at his house, and there was a baseball game on, he’d slowly amble back to his bedroom, lay on his bed, and he’d watch the Astros for hours. If Nolan Ryan was pitching, it was a special treat. Since I wanted to stay in his shadow, I’d amble just behind as we walked down the long hallway, and as he crawled onto the bed I’d walk around to my grandmother’s side and we’d lay there in the smoke filled room listening to the echoes of Milo Hamilton and Larry Dierker as they told us pitch by pitch how the “Lastros” were playing crappy baseball. I’ll always remember as a little boy, we’d sit there watching the game, and somehow our hands would come together, our fingers would interlock, and sometimes we’d sit there and hold hands until one of us probably felt a little funny, and then we’d have arm wrestling matches, really for no other reason than to affirm that men shouldn’t sit there holding hands. The old fart died when I was about 12, and it almost broke my heart.
Before he died, I had found a small battery powered radio somewhere in the house, and it was the perfect size for me to tune into AM 740, and gently slide under my pillow, and there again I’d lay still and listen to Milo and Larry tell me how crappy the Astros were playing. After he died, I continued listening to the Astros on that little radio, and like a time machine, as Milo and Larry continued to tell the story of each game, my mind would drift back to those arm wrestling matches, and the great times we shared. Soon enough, like all young boys, I turned into a self absorbed teenager, life got busy, and I forgot about so many of the memories that shaped me.
“People will come Ray. The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh... people will come Ray. People will most definitely come”
My spine tingles as I remember this scene from Field Of Dreams, when James Earl Jones is convincing Kevin Costner not to forget about the past, or give up on his dream for the future. Like the quote, my blackboard was erased, only to be rebuilt by a few hours of ESPN radio, on an obscure day, where fans of all kinds extolled the virtues of a baseball announcer, and I’m so grateful to have that memory back again. Even today, with the exception of Jackson’s tee ball game, I’d really rather watch Sysiphus and his daily rock push, than watch a complete baseball game, but I still remember. It’s a silly game, it’s a boring game, and the Astros still stink, but I’m thankful for ESPN radio, Milo Hamilton and Larry Dierker for reminding me of what was once good. Most of all I’m thankful for the promise of my Lord to know that one day I can again hold hands with my granddaddy, and it will be good again.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
City Boys and Snakes
I have great memories of growing up as a “city boy”, most of which I wouldn’t trade for anything. We’d spend countless hours riding bikes along the paved roads, running through the houses that sat about 10’ apart from one another, swimming in the countless swimming pools, and doing all the fun things city kids do. On occasion, we’d hop on our bikes and venture into the undeveloped section of the neighborhood just hoping to find a new trail which would lead us into a new forest adventure. On these adventures it seems like each one of us was hoping to satisfy our inherent desire for some semblance of peace and quiet, and maybe we’d see a snake, or find some untapped resource we could claim our own. Unfortunately, instead of finding that pot of gold at the end of a 10 year old’s rainbow, all we’d find was a series of used condoms, hypodermic needles, or the occasional Playboy magazine.
Luckily for me, it wasn’t long before we entered Junior High and I met my good friend Clay. He was an odd lad because he was from the northern part of the county, and didn’t go to elementary school with the rest of the “regular kids”. It wasn’t long before we became fast friends and eventual partners in crime! One of the most fascinating things about Clay is that he was from a part of the world where neighborhoods were not in existence, all the roads were yet to be paved, and if they needed something, they had to “go to town”. Where my feet had only tread on plush San Augustine turf, and the occasional sun scorched pavement; he lived in a magical world where No-Trespassing signs served as an invitation to explore uncharted creeks, ponds, and the trees across the pasture served as a future sovereign fortress, if you only dare!!!
One great memory from Clay’s house comes while on a night of “wrapping” a house with toilet paper. We were only a few great throws into decorating the trees with the two-ply streams when I hear Clay whisper-yell at me to lay down in the ditch because headlights were coming down the road. Whilst we were laying there with fire ants covering our bellies, watching the lights come closer and closer, he decides to tell me that we needed to be really quiet because the man who owns the newly decorated house tends to be drunk, and is also a member of the Klan. With much horror, I watched the lights get closer and closer, the car slow down and eventually turn into the very driveway that crossed the fire- ant- infested- bar ditch we were lying in. Luckily, the driveway was long, and it took about 2 seconds after he passed before I realized Clay already had a head start on running down the road….truly no honor among thieves! Needless to say, I started running so fast I must have left skid marks in the road, but I’m sure they were only a small streak compared to the newly forming skid mark in my horror-filled- city-boy-tighty-whities! I was no Scout to this Boo Radley!
Today I sit here as a quickly developing country boy, who married his very own Scout! While my “Scout” isn’t quite as mischievous as Harper Lee’s, she’s gently guided me and encouraged me to find the place my soul has longed for all of these years, both in love and in location!!!
Angie laughs at me often, but I think one of her favorite laughs stems from watching her “city boy” transform into an honest to goodness country boy. She got a good laugh this weekend as I worked out at the well house. Now first let me say that our well house is known throughout the chicken snake world as “the cool place to be”, because more often than not, there’s a chicken snake napping in some odd corner of the house. The crappy thing is the chicken snakes can’t just lay in the middle of floor with a big flashing light pointing at them. Instead, they find the most obscure location, crawl into a tight ball, and just wait on the funny looking city boy to open the doors he so carefully built to keep them out! Yup, I honestly thought I could build a good set of doors with my own bare hands, and if the doors didn’t keep them out, I felt sure they would at least respect my hard work and not go in there….oh I know they were watching me, I could feel their beady little eyes on me the whole time!!! At any rate, like I good husband and daddy, I decide that the last few weekends would be a good time to give the area a good cleaning, so as to prevent future snake hang outs. So yesterday, much to my chagrin, I have to go into the well house to plug an extension cord in the back corner outlet. I swallow my fears ( because I do admit that I’m scared of snakes, and I hate the thought of going in there), I throw the doors open and stare down any slithering friend that might be waiting to make my acquaintance. After giving the house a good scan, I take a step inside and finally spot my nemesis. I didn’t know that chicken snakes could grow like anacondas, but I see this giant SOB wrapped around one of the rafters in the far corner of the well house…yup, the very same corner where the electrical outlet is! After slowly backing away, I run inside and tell my bride that I’m about to shoot a hole in our well house, and I was serious. Thankfully, she stopped short of laughing out loud at me, and then my country girl calmly told me that “chicken snakes are good snakes”. This is where we disagree and need to make a clear distinction. To this city boy, a “good snake” is the little 10” garter snake you see crawling across the concrete driveway on a sunny day!
Soooo, after this brief exchange, I decide Angie is dead wrong about the snake, but probably right that it’s not a good idea to shoot a hole in our well house. So I run out and grab my hoe, and when I get to the well house, I realize that somehow the giant anaconda chicken snake has disappeared. It’s been TWO FREAKING MINUTES! Instead of being excited, I realize that:
A) The snake is gone!
B) It’s only been two minutes, so the snake couldn’t go far and I have no idea where it is!
Unfortunately, it’s still early in the day and I spend the rest of the day looking over my shoulder and everywhere else to find the sneaky anaconda chicken snake! Despite my unhealthy fear, I was able to get a lot done without screaming like a girl every time I saw a stick that looked like a snake!
Now that I think about it, I have a new understanding of the Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. It goes like this. City boy Adam and Country girl Eve are strolling in the Garden of Eden one day when they come across Snakey Satan. City boy Adam says to Eve “ I need to find my sling shot and shoot that giant snake” After Country Girl Eve catches her breath from a good belly laugh, she says “Silly City boy Adam, Snakey Satan snakes are good snakes”. City boy Adam doesn’t want to look like a fool, so he lets Snakey Satan live, and it came back to bite them in the butt……all because of Eve!!!
If you’re still reading this, I apologize that I’ve taken such a circuitous route to make my point…so here it is: Like I said in my intro, I wouldn’t trade my memories that I have from growing up as a city kid, but even more, I wouldn’t trade the memories that I’m making now as I transform into a full blown country boy! I love my country girl with all my heart, and even though I often miss some of the conveniences that come with city life, I wouldn’t want to raise my kiddos anywhere else. Dadgummit, if it wasn’t for snakes, I’d have the greatest life in the world, and I smile with great anticipation as I think of the adventures my children will have on these few acres of family land!
Luckily for me, it wasn’t long before we entered Junior High and I met my good friend Clay. He was an odd lad because he was from the northern part of the county, and didn’t go to elementary school with the rest of the “regular kids”. It wasn’t long before we became fast friends and eventual partners in crime! One of the most fascinating things about Clay is that he was from a part of the world where neighborhoods were not in existence, all the roads were yet to be paved, and if they needed something, they had to “go to town”. Where my feet had only tread on plush San Augustine turf, and the occasional sun scorched pavement; he lived in a magical world where No-Trespassing signs served as an invitation to explore uncharted creeks, ponds, and the trees across the pasture served as a future sovereign fortress, if you only dare!!!
One great memory from Clay’s house comes while on a night of “wrapping” a house with toilet paper. We were only a few great throws into decorating the trees with the two-ply streams when I hear Clay whisper-yell at me to lay down in the ditch because headlights were coming down the road. Whilst we were laying there with fire ants covering our bellies, watching the lights come closer and closer, he decides to tell me that we needed to be really quiet because the man who owns the newly decorated house tends to be drunk, and is also a member of the Klan. With much horror, I watched the lights get closer and closer, the car slow down and eventually turn into the very driveway that crossed the fire- ant- infested- bar ditch we were lying in. Luckily, the driveway was long, and it took about 2 seconds after he passed before I realized Clay already had a head start on running down the road….truly no honor among thieves! Needless to say, I started running so fast I must have left skid marks in the road, but I’m sure they were only a small streak compared to the newly forming skid mark in my horror-filled- city-boy-tighty-whities! I was no Scout to this Boo Radley!
Today I sit here as a quickly developing country boy, who married his very own Scout! While my “Scout” isn’t quite as mischievous as Harper Lee’s, she’s gently guided me and encouraged me to find the place my soul has longed for all of these years, both in love and in location!!!
Angie laughs at me often, but I think one of her favorite laughs stems from watching her “city boy” transform into an honest to goodness country boy. She got a good laugh this weekend as I worked out at the well house. Now first let me say that our well house is known throughout the chicken snake world as “the cool place to be”, because more often than not, there’s a chicken snake napping in some odd corner of the house. The crappy thing is the chicken snakes can’t just lay in the middle of floor with a big flashing light pointing at them. Instead, they find the most obscure location, crawl into a tight ball, and just wait on the funny looking city boy to open the doors he so carefully built to keep them out! Yup, I honestly thought I could build a good set of doors with my own bare hands, and if the doors didn’t keep them out, I felt sure they would at least respect my hard work and not go in there….oh I know they were watching me, I could feel their beady little eyes on me the whole time!!! At any rate, like I good husband and daddy, I decide that the last few weekends would be a good time to give the area a good cleaning, so as to prevent future snake hang outs. So yesterday, much to my chagrin, I have to go into the well house to plug an extension cord in the back corner outlet. I swallow my fears ( because I do admit that I’m scared of snakes, and I hate the thought of going in there), I throw the doors open and stare down any slithering friend that might be waiting to make my acquaintance. After giving the house a good scan, I take a step inside and finally spot my nemesis. I didn’t know that chicken snakes could grow like anacondas, but I see this giant SOB wrapped around one of the rafters in the far corner of the well house…yup, the very same corner where the electrical outlet is! After slowly backing away, I run inside and tell my bride that I’m about to shoot a hole in our well house, and I was serious. Thankfully, she stopped short of laughing out loud at me, and then my country girl calmly told me that “chicken snakes are good snakes”. This is where we disagree and need to make a clear distinction. To this city boy, a “good snake” is the little 10” garter snake you see crawling across the concrete driveway on a sunny day!
Soooo, after this brief exchange, I decide Angie is dead wrong about the snake, but probably right that it’s not a good idea to shoot a hole in our well house. So I run out and grab my hoe, and when I get to the well house, I realize that somehow the giant anaconda chicken snake has disappeared. It’s been TWO FREAKING MINUTES! Instead of being excited, I realize that:
A) The snake is gone!
B) It’s only been two minutes, so the snake couldn’t go far and I have no idea where it is!
Unfortunately, it’s still early in the day and I spend the rest of the day looking over my shoulder and everywhere else to find the sneaky anaconda chicken snake! Despite my unhealthy fear, I was able to get a lot done without screaming like a girl every time I saw a stick that looked like a snake!
Now that I think about it, I have a new understanding of the Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. It goes like this. City boy Adam and Country girl Eve are strolling in the Garden of Eden one day when they come across Snakey Satan. City boy Adam says to Eve “ I need to find my sling shot and shoot that giant snake” After Country Girl Eve catches her breath from a good belly laugh, she says “Silly City boy Adam, Snakey Satan snakes are good snakes”. City boy Adam doesn’t want to look like a fool, so he lets Snakey Satan live, and it came back to bite them in the butt……all because of Eve!!!
If you’re still reading this, I apologize that I’ve taken such a circuitous route to make my point…so here it is: Like I said in my intro, I wouldn’t trade my memories that I have from growing up as a city kid, but even more, I wouldn’t trade the memories that I’m making now as I transform into a full blown country boy! I love my country girl with all my heart, and even though I often miss some of the conveniences that come with city life, I wouldn’t want to raise my kiddos anywhere else. Dadgummit, if it wasn’t for snakes, I’d have the greatest life in the world, and I smile with great anticipation as I think of the adventures my children will have on these few acres of family land!
Monday, March 1, 2010
Invincible
I wrote this awhile back after learning that my nephew and another friend were both diagnosed with bladder cancer. Both are young men, and Thank the Lord, both are doing well now!!!
As the years go by, my hair is going wayward, my belly is going outward, and my priorities are going upward to a more mature perspective…I hope. I realize with age and maturity also comes responsibility. It becomes more and more clear everyday when Jackson asks me why I have to go to work, and my response is always “to make money”, to which he replies “for my piggybank”, and I conclude with “yes sir”. Alas, with a 3 year old it is not a conclusion to a conversation, but instead an opening for his favorite word, “WHY?”.
At any rate, my 32 years have mostly been filled with a great sense of invincibility. I dare you to tell me that I can’t do something, and I can’t wait to prove you wrong; within reason, of course. But I guess I’m slowly learning that I can’t do everything, and the great Kevin Reed is, in fact, not invincible. I’m not sure when this realization started creeping into my thick skull, but I’m really not excited about it. In all honesty, the overriding question in my mind is the same as Jackson’s …WHY?
The fact of the matter is that the bumper sticker will inevitably prove prophetic in that SHIT HAPPENS, and will continue to happen. Fortunately, life also teaches you that most of the time it happens for a reason, but more importantly, you learn how to respond to it when it happens. Intelligence comes with education, but wisdom can only come through experience. I guess that’s why the old farts always seem to have it figured out.
As the years go by, my hair is going wayward, my belly is going outward, and my priorities are going upward to a more mature perspective…I hope. I realize with age and maturity also comes responsibility. It becomes more and more clear everyday when Jackson asks me why I have to go to work, and my response is always “to make money”, to which he replies “for my piggybank”, and I conclude with “yes sir”. Alas, with a 3 year old it is not a conclusion to a conversation, but instead an opening for his favorite word, “WHY?”.
At any rate, my 32 years have mostly been filled with a great sense of invincibility. I dare you to tell me that I can’t do something, and I can’t wait to prove you wrong; within reason, of course. But I guess I’m slowly learning that I can’t do everything, and the great Kevin Reed is, in fact, not invincible. I’m not sure when this realization started creeping into my thick skull, but I’m really not excited about it. In all honesty, the overriding question in my mind is the same as Jackson’s …WHY?
The fact of the matter is that the bumper sticker will inevitably prove prophetic in that SHIT HAPPENS, and will continue to happen. Fortunately, life also teaches you that most of the time it happens for a reason, but more importantly, you learn how to respond to it when it happens. Intelligence comes with education, but wisdom can only come through experience. I guess that’s why the old farts always seem to have it figured out.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Clinton Kelly, we ain’t!
It is with much shame that I declare to the world that I know who Clinton Kelly is, and on the occasional Saturday night, I choose to watch “What not to wear” in an effort to spend some quality time with my bride. I should actually watch it more, not for the fashion tips, but because two kids and a busy life limits the quality time I spend with my bride. But I digress…
My job in the morning is to wake the kids up and get them dressed for the day. If we’re going to Nannie’s or Nana’s, I don’t care if they go in their pj’s or a robot suit (which we have done). If we’re going to school or out in public, I pick out what they wear, and until recently, it hasn’t been up for discussion. That leads us to today!
Now that the boy is older, he is slowly but surely learning how to get himself dressed. We start the morning, like we ended last night….he’s got is underwear on backwards. I’m proud that he is able to get is underwear on, but there’s a running joke among the men in our family about the kind of man that where’s his underwear backwards, and it’s not good! I make him turn his “drawers” around like a good homophobic dad will do (tantrum #1). Next I pick out the pants, and a cool spiderman shirt, but he doesn’t like the pants because they’re not soft. After a couple other suggestions, I let him pick. I was so proud that he picked the camo pants!, only to find out that he wants to wear the spiderman shirt, which doesn’t match the camo at all, so I make him wear a dull gray shirt (tantrum #2). Now time for the shoes. Instead of wearing the normal good looking “run fast shoes”, he wants to wear the black Velcro homeless guy shoes. I balk. (tantrum #3) I hate these shoes for the sole reason that they look like the same shoes you see from the People at Wal-Mart website…you know, the 500lb slobby guy with a sweet mullet, that wears them with dirty sweat pants that are too short, and socks that don’t match! Yup, the very same shoes! Luckily, we only find one, and we agree on the standard “run fast shoes”, only for him to shout with exuberance “I found the other one daddy”! Oh Brother! At this point I give up, and he puts the shoes on the wrong feet and proudly walks away, only for me to notice that the camo pants are way too short and the white ankle socks are highlighted by 3 inches of bare leg! Yet again, I’m whipped, and to argue the point further is the definition of futility!
I know a good parent would have stopped this at tantrum #1, and normally I do. But I didn’t sleep well, and I didn’t want to deal with the drama that comes with a good butt-whipping.
Thankfully for my wife, I ain’t no Clinton Kelly…unfortunately, some days I’m no James Dobson either!
My job in the morning is to wake the kids up and get them dressed for the day. If we’re going to Nannie’s or Nana’s, I don’t care if they go in their pj’s or a robot suit (which we have done). If we’re going to school or out in public, I pick out what they wear, and until recently, it hasn’t been up for discussion. That leads us to today!
Now that the boy is older, he is slowly but surely learning how to get himself dressed. We start the morning, like we ended last night….he’s got is underwear on backwards. I’m proud that he is able to get is underwear on, but there’s a running joke among the men in our family about the kind of man that where’s his underwear backwards, and it’s not good! I make him turn his “drawers” around like a good homophobic dad will do (tantrum #1). Next I pick out the pants, and a cool spiderman shirt, but he doesn’t like the pants because they’re not soft. After a couple other suggestions, I let him pick. I was so proud that he picked the camo pants!, only to find out that he wants to wear the spiderman shirt, which doesn’t match the camo at all, so I make him wear a dull gray shirt (tantrum #2). Now time for the shoes. Instead of wearing the normal good looking “run fast shoes”, he wants to wear the black Velcro homeless guy shoes. I balk. (tantrum #3) I hate these shoes for the sole reason that they look like the same shoes you see from the People at Wal-Mart website…you know, the 500lb slobby guy with a sweet mullet, that wears them with dirty sweat pants that are too short, and socks that don’t match! Yup, the very same shoes! Luckily, we only find one, and we agree on the standard “run fast shoes”, only for him to shout with exuberance “I found the other one daddy”! Oh Brother! At this point I give up, and he puts the shoes on the wrong feet and proudly walks away, only for me to notice that the camo pants are way too short and the white ankle socks are highlighted by 3 inches of bare leg! Yet again, I’m whipped, and to argue the point further is the definition of futility!
I know a good parent would have stopped this at tantrum #1, and normally I do. But I didn’t sleep well, and I didn’t want to deal with the drama that comes with a good butt-whipping.
Thankfully for my wife, I ain’t no Clinton Kelly…unfortunately, some days I’m no James Dobson either!
Welcome!
Welcome to my blog! After much internal debate about whether or not blogging is purely a “girly” thing to do, I’ve decided that, for whatever reason, I am confident in my own masculinity and might have a nugget of wisdom to share with the world. With that said, I’m clinging to the saying that “even a blind squirrel finds a nut every now and then”.
I’ve decided to call this blog “REEDer’s Digest”. I hope my spelling error will preclude me from any copyright infringement suits! At any rate, I kinda like the title. When I think of the actual publication of Reader’s Digest, I always think of it being the only book available in the doctor’s office, or probably more appropriate, the one book you grab when you feel that certain urge, and you know you’re going to be on the can for a while.
So let’s run with the toilet analogy! Most everyone that I know of who is a subscriber to the actual Reader’s Digest (most notably my father-in-law), only reads it while on the “throne” and after several minute of reading, they always come away with two things: their feet have fallen asleep, and they have managed to pull some random story or truism to share with others. I personally like the “drama in real life” section.
To be honest, I don’t really care if you fall asleep, because I’m really just writing this for me. And some of you might need something like this to help put you to sleep, so that could be a free service. Otherwise, if you come away with a nugget of wisdom that’s great, if you don’t then I can always use this as evidence in a trial to prove that I really don’t have any sense, and hopefully the jury will think that I’m just too stupid to be guilty!
On a side note, I told Angie that I was going to start a blog and call it “REEDer’s Digest”. I was a little confused when she rolled her eyes and brushed me off, only to find out that she thought I was going to call it “Breeder’s Digest”. Although it’s not a bad idea, I’m a little concerned that my wife just takes everything I say as a perverted remark, but she’s always relieved when that’s not the case!
I’ve decided to call this blog “REEDer’s Digest”. I hope my spelling error will preclude me from any copyright infringement suits! At any rate, I kinda like the title. When I think of the actual publication of Reader’s Digest, I always think of it being the only book available in the doctor’s office, or probably more appropriate, the one book you grab when you feel that certain urge, and you know you’re going to be on the can for a while.
So let’s run with the toilet analogy! Most everyone that I know of who is a subscriber to the actual Reader’s Digest (most notably my father-in-law), only reads it while on the “throne” and after several minute of reading, they always come away with two things: their feet have fallen asleep, and they have managed to pull some random story or truism to share with others. I personally like the “drama in real life” section.
To be honest, I don’t really care if you fall asleep, because I’m really just writing this for me. And some of you might need something like this to help put you to sleep, so that could be a free service. Otherwise, if you come away with a nugget of wisdom that’s great, if you don’t then I can always use this as evidence in a trial to prove that I really don’t have any sense, and hopefully the jury will think that I’m just too stupid to be guilty!
On a side note, I told Angie that I was going to start a blog and call it “REEDer’s Digest”. I was a little confused when she rolled her eyes and brushed me off, only to find out that she thought I was going to call it “Breeder’s Digest”. Although it’s not a bad idea, I’m a little concerned that my wife just takes everything I say as a perverted remark, but she’s always relieved when that’s not the case!
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